Forget-Me-Not
by CrimsonRegret478
Summary: The cerulean petals were strewn about him in a broken pool, rippling out like the water's unsteady surface. The crimson tide stained those waters, changing it to a sickly and unforgiving brown. "How could you forget our promise, Lovi? How could you leave me here all alone? How could you forget!"
1. Prologue

**Crimson, what the halibut are you doing writing a new story when you've got so many others that are unfinished? What is wrong with you?**

**Don't know, gais, don't ask. This idea came to me just last night and I decided to throw it out there and see what you all thought. Please let me know if I should continue. Now, mind you, I'm still working hard on the Midnight Series. This story will be updated when ****at least one chapter for Midnight's Atonement and Midnight's Promise have been posted. Sound good?**

**Do I love torturing the characters in my stories? Especially Antonio and Lovino? They're my OTP. Whatever goes on in this wicked head of mine, good or bad, revolves around them. /shot**

**Happy reading~**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Warnings: Death, blood, violence, and language.**

* * *

**Prologue**

He knew he was going to die.

That much was certain.

His punctured heart thundered in his chest and in his ears, weakening to nothing but a dull roar. He rasped and put pressure on the gaping hole in his chest to try and slow death's advance over him as she whispered her cool breath down his neck. Blood seeped through the crevices of his fingers, turning his shirt into an unforgiving red. The pain had numbed considerably but he struggled to maintain his hold on that. It was the only thing keeping him in reality—in the world of the living.

"Antonio w-would be so… fucking pissed off at me for g-giving up so e-easily…" he let out a low and bitter chuckle, swallowing the blood rising in his throat.

He fell limp against the wall he had managed to crawl towards by using the last of his stolen strength. Another breath of frigid air traversed over him, kissing him softly, beckoning him to the darkness that so desperately wanted to claim him. It promised him comfort. It promised him an escape.

The blue flowers Antonio had gotten for him stared at him forlornly, silent spectators, and its fallen petals trickled down like tears.

Forest green eyes slipped shut.

His chest rose once…

Twice…

A third time…

And then no more.

Lovino Vargas was dead.


	2. Chapter 1: Nevermore

**Gosh, I am so sorry for the long period of inactivity. School is relentless.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Warnings: Language, blood, violence, death**

**Happy reading~**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Nevermore**

"_Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them."_

—George Eliot

Heated, expectant eyes watched the man slumped forward in his chair on the black and white snowy screen. The brunette wouldn't make eye contact or so much as look up as he was brought in. The group of men in their sharp dark suits and black ties had all made their own judgments of the wearied suspect—some harsh, some rather doubtful—and questioned if one so despondent, one so crestfallen, could have really murdered the love of his life in cold blood. It was painful to watch him enter the interrogation room with his head hung low, dragging his feet like they were two-ton cinderblocks and adorned in filthy clothes stained with dried blood.

"I'm going to ask you some very simple and direct questions," the voice of the other man on the screen came through the aged, crackling speaker, "and I highly suggest that you answer them in the same fashion. It'll make this a hell of a lot easier then we can all go home. Well,_ I _will be anyway. Now, let's begin. What is your name?"

"Antonio. Antonio Carriedo."

"And just how old are you, Mr. Carriedo?"

The man paused, the answer playing at his lips, "…27."

The officer scribbled something down on the large notepad resting beside him on the table. Antonio stared at his lap—at his wrists bound by handcuffs—unseeing but hearing everything that went on around him: the scratching of pen against paper, the officer (annoyingly) chewing on the stick of gum he had popped into his mouth only moments ago, the frantic beating of his own heart. The man in uniform seated before him was Officer Summers—young, determined, sardonic, and all-around aggravating in Antonio's opinion. With hair painted in flames and abysmal blue eyes, he was too arrogant for being just a novice in his field and the way he stared at the handcuffed Spaniard with a Machiavellian smirk made the latter cringe.

"Did you kill Mr. Vargas?"

Antonio gave a low snarl, scorning at the repetitive, accusing question, "No."

"Then where were you the night he was murdered?"

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, refraining the cold silence from settling on their shoulders as the man in question kept quiet and unmoving, his expression blank—a statue. He breathed calmly and gently, fighting for composure… for the emotional stability he desperately coveted. He was so close to breaking again. He was so close to jumping off that cliff. And this time he might not have the strength to pull himself back over the edge.

"Mr. Carriedo?"

Said man looked up finally; hopelessness, exhaustion, and lament darkened the bright gems, giving a crystal clear window into his shattered heart. The officer repeated his previous question, scratching at his light facial stubble and running a hand through his fiery hair.

"I already told your pals out there what I was doing," Antonio rasped and cleared his throat to rid of its neglect and overuse. "I was out having drinks with my friends. They know I didn't do it."

"It's not what you know, it's what you can actually prove in court," Officer Summers chuckled.

"They will vouch for me."

"Sorry buddy, but we're going to need more than a hall pass and a note from mom. So: if you were out having drinks with your friends, as you claim, then why was your car parked in the driveway of your shared home the night he died?"

Antonio's eyes narrowed at the ignorant question, "I did not murder him."

"And how convenient it was that you two had an argument just before you left."

"I did _not_ murder him," Antonio's brow twitched in annoyance, raising his voice and adding more conviction in his words, seeping them in poison.

"Was he having an affair or were you just so greedy that you killed him for his inheritance—?"

"_I DID NOT MURDER HIM!"_ Antonio slammed his fists on the table with a loud _bang._ The metal cuffs sliced easily into his skin, dripping blood onto the table, but neither man seemed to notice.

The young officer didn't so much as bat an eye but instead only watched as his suspect trembled and lowered his head in grief, taking in shuddering breaths, sniffling once. He let Antonio have his moment of "acting," as he worded it so graciously the previous day to the other investigators at the crime scene when they found the Spaniard in hysterics whilst cradling his lover's ragdoll corpse.

"…home?" came a strangled plea.

"What was that?" Officer Summers leaned forward a bit, lending his ear.

"…can I go home?" Antonio refused to pay any heed to the warm and sticky liquid pooling underneath his wrists and instead stared at his lap—at the dried substance that was once fresh a day ago. The color he so hated… the color _red. _"If you have nothing holding me accountable for the murder… no evidence… then you have no reason to keep me here."

"What home, Carriedo? What home can you possibly go back to? Your boyfriend is dead—by your own hands, mind you," Summers scooted out of his chair and circled around the table, keeping his glacial eyes on Antonio. "Your parents? Dead. No siblings. No other relatives. I haven't even seen your so-called friends show up yet. You're all alone. Welcome to America."

"You have no evidence saying that I committed murder."

"We know you did it."

"Well it's not what you know, it's what you can prove in court, right?" Antonio said rather coolly.

Summers stood there, a fire smoldering in his usually frigid stare. Folder in hand, the officer threw it in front of Antonio, the pictures spilling out. Time for a different approach.

"Look at these pictures, Carriedo! Look at what you did to him!"

Antonio shook his head, sealing his eyes shut. He didn't need to see that again!

Not again…!

No…

Not again…

The blood.

There was so… much… _blood!_

He couldn't think of it, especially not at a time like this. He lacked the desire to put back the fallen pieces.

Another man entered the room at that moment with a razor sharp smile and haughty coffee eyes. Antonio trailed his gaze to this man dressed in a black suit identical to the other men that had gathered to watch his interrogation as if it was some kind of spectator sport. With salt-and-pepper hair sleeked neatly back, the authoritative man turned his supercilious grin to the other officer who questioned him.

"I'm afraid he's correct, Mr. Summers. We have no reason to keep him here without evidence of him committing the murder and until we do, he's free to go."

"But Chief, we have firm reason to believe—"

The elder raised his hand, effectively muting the novice, "He has no reason to be detained and you no longer have the privilege of handling this case. I'm handing it off to someone else with more experience. Come now, Mr. Carriedo. Let's get those wrists of yours bandaged up, hm?"

Antonio was led out of the room with no input from the exasperating redheaded officer. The handcuffs were removed from his still bleeding wrists and gauze was delicately wrapped around them, easily becoming soiled with blood.

"I am sincerely sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Carriedo. You are free to go. We'll be contacting you when we receive new information regarding your case," the elderly man said, offering his razor smile.

Antonio left the room without so much as a word to the others who watched him with condescending eyes.

"Toni!" a streak of platinum blonde blurred by and brought the Spaniard into a breathtaking hug—a hug that was not returned. "I'm so glad you're out of there, man! It's been hours!"

"Gilbert, there is no need to shout," Francis, brushing back an annoying strand of his golden hair, reprimanded.

"I don't care, Frenchie! He's my best friend, too! You need to stop hanging around that British asshole! He's beginning to rub off on you! And you don't even like him!" the Prussian stuck out his tongue and released Antonio from his hold when he finally realized that his friend had no intention to hug him back.

"We were so worried about you, Antoine. How are you holding up?" Francis spoke softly despite his French accent hindering his pronunciation a bit, and gently placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, concern rippling in his oceanic eyes.

Antonio stared at the Frenchman remotely, registering the question fully but ultimately decided it was best left unanswered. Instead, he replied shakily, "I just want to go home. Please… Just take me home."

* * *

He took a deep, unnecessary breath—nearly choking—and resurfaced from the dark waters that held him so delicately. The shadows dripped off of him and light filled his vision, blinding him but bringing no fear. He coughed and sputtered, clutching at his chest, forcing a rancid but coppery taste from his mouth. The light dimmed in intensity, and a grey filter washed over his vision, allowing him to study his immediate surroundings.

He was… home?

The bouquet of flowers gazed at him wearily—longingly, almost— as if waiting for him to return home again. Its fallen petals surrounded the vase, shriveled up and dying. He felt for the gaping wound marring his chest… nothing. It was clean. The rip in his shirt and the dry blood were the only remaining indications of his attack… of his murder. He was murdered, right? He died, didn't he? On this floor and in this room? The man shuddered to his feet and out of the large dark stain on the floor. He leaned against the wall, oddly weak.

What happened?

Everything was in such disarray.

Lovino Vargas paused a moment, allowing his swimming, greying vision to settle, and sighed heavily. He needed to pull himself together!

'_Come on, Lovino! Get a grip! Quit being pathetic!' _he reprimanded himself in his desolate thoughts. He grabbed at his chest again, unsurprised by the revelation of a silent heart.

He _was _dead.

No longer living.

But why was he here? In his house?

Trapped in limbo, perhaps?

"So this is what I get, huh? No Heaven or Hell, just purgatory?" Lovino's evanescent voice vibrated in his ghostly plane. "Great. Just fucking peachy."

No color.

No life.

Just the monochromatic hues of death were there to welcome him—the black and the white and the grey. The dull. The bland. The neutral. Lovino sighed. So much for that whole "Your-departed-family-will-be-waiting-to-greet-you -at-Heaven's –gates-like-it's-some-kind-of-airport" vision people offered. It'd really be Heaven if his family was ever that happy to see his face again. Hobbling over to the vase of neglected flowers, he brushed their colorless petals as they passed through his fingers, imagining their leather-like texture.

A bright blue… the brightest blue he had ever seen… if memory served. Such a beautiful blue. Like the clear waters of the ocean on a summer day. Sunlight washed in the room, ultimately catching Lovino's attention. Warmth. Its tingling sensation transferred from his blurring memory throughout his lifeless spirit, nothing but a distant echo. The Italian held up his hand in the light, reveling in the astonishing fact that he appeared… solid. The way the light refracted around his hand and his soul cast a fading shadow. He was stuck in this sad and lonely place. Not even the birds singing their chorus or the wind tangoing with the leaves in random steps could fully permeate such loneliness.

The front door creaked open and Lovino ducked around the corner, watching a man with bright hair (from what he could tell by his dulled vision) and twisted, dark eyes enter his home. The Italian's own forest orbs narrowed. He already didn't like this new character. The energy such a man gave off was… repulsive. He was walking around like he owned the place or something! Lovino continued scrutinizing the man, now realizing he was an officer by the uniform underneath his beige trench coat (despite it being almost 80 degrees outside), who explored the living room with mild interest, humming a small tune. Lovino moved to follow the man, silent as a falling leaf—as a passing shadow that danced just in the periphery that one might mistake the movement as an overactive imagination. As the vile investigator's eyes tried to locate the source of the sudden movement before he finally shrugged and turned his attention to the object in his hands.

"Hmm… let's see what we've got here," the man flicked open a manila folder with Lovino's name printed neatly on the tab.

Glancing over the officer's shoulder, Lovino's eyes widened upon seeing the photos of his bloodied corpse, limp and ashen against the wall. That was… that was him! _That was his body he was staring at! _The sticky notes accompanying the disturbing photographs were the obvious details of the crime scene jotted down: defensive wounds, knife injuries to the arms, legs, and abdomen along with the fatal blow to the heart and concussion from a blunt object. However, in bold red print, it read:

"MISSING MURDER WEAPON—KILLER STILL AT LARGE."

A chill rushed down the living man's spine, causing the hairs on the back of his to stand on end, and he looked around with an utterly puzzled expression.

"You know better than to be here, Summers," the sound of a thick, British accent from the doorway made both men jump in surprise and caused the Italian spirit to distance himself from the two men as his presence was already having an adverse effect on the temperature of the room.

Summers, Lovino now learned, sighed heavily in frustration, closing the folder, "How many times have a told you to stay out of _my_ business, Kirkland? You're always trying to outdo me. It's the middle of the day. Aren't you missing your afternoon tea?"

"How can I try to surpass you when it's already been done?" came the scornful remark.

Arthur Kirkland.

Blonde hair and green eyes, if Lovino remembered correctly, with a personality that could freeze even the warmest and kindest of hearts in a case of thick ice. Lovino asked himself what Arthur Kirkland could possibly be doing at his house but the Italian had to remember that the blonde-haired, green-eyed Englishman he detested was an investigator himself—and a damn good one at that (but Lovino would never admit that aloud).

"You've no business being here, Summers. You Americans can be so nosy sometimes, prying into matters that do not concern them," Arthur entered the empty home, already taking note of the tense ambiance, with sarcasm practically dripping onto the floor from his words as he spoke in round, pear-shaped tones.

"Speak for yourself, Kirkland. This is _my_ case and I'm going to prove that Spaniard guilty if it's the last thing I do," Summers sneered, returning his gaze back to the folder.

Lovino growled upon hearing Antonio's affiliation with his murder. After all this time, _Antonio, _his lover, his life, killed him? How dare he?!

"I'd hate to burst your bubble—actually, I'd love to—but I'm going to let you down easy. This case has been handed to me personally by your chief, in case it slipped your mind, and let's not forget that you need evidence to support your claim. Which you don't have," Arthur smirked, knowing he had struck a nerve in the novice officer.

When Summers didn't respond, Arthur continued, "And, unlike you, I plan to solve this in a much more… humane and not to mention _quicker _manner than what you had in mind." He then snatched the folder from the novice's hands artless with a sardonic smile, immediately tucking it underneath his arm.

The young officer sent a glare that would've murdered the Englishman instantly if looks could kill.

Arthur chuckled, thoroughly amused, "Come now, don't look at me like that, Trent. You botched this up on your own, you know. And that's putting it nicely."

Lovino watched the scene unfold with piquing interest, daring to inch closer. Arthur's eyes shifted around the room, taking note of the change in atmosphere pricking at his skin. The Englishman hummed in thought, carefully strolling about the area, his eyes narrowed while Trent Summers stood there absolutely puzzled.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Now get going. My son is waiting for me at home," Arthur nodded towards the door.

Summers growled in agitation and stormed out of the home, leaving Arthur in perpetual silence. The Englishman was quiet for a moment, listening for the faintest whisper or feeling the slightest drop in temperature.

"All right," Arthur finally said aloud, "I know you're here and for what reason is your own business."

Lovino tilted his head to the side a bit.

Was Arthur… looking right at him?

"You really ought to work on concealing yourself better. If you get too careless, even someone without my ability will be able to see you… Mr. Vargas."

And with that, Arthur smiled knowingly.

Lovino's eyes widened.

He _was! _Arthur was staring right at him! Not through him but at him—as if he was truly there!

It was then that the Englishman left, leaving the thunderstruck, abandoned Italian soul behind.


	3. Chapter 2: Sorrow's Hold

**OVER 5,000 WORDS. *FEELS OVERLY ACCOMPLISHED* Boo yah! /shot.**

**Okay, so for lack of my activity, you all deserve this lengthy (not) chapter. I've squeezed as much as I can out of this chapter without revealing too much and I think I did a damn good job of it, if I do say so myself. /bricked.**

**Constructive criticism is most welcome as is anything else! Let me know if you want this story to continue and it's not a total fail! Forgive any mistakes if you would. This is unBeta'd and I will go back and fix said mistakes when time allows.**

**For now...**

**Happy reading~!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Warnings: Death, language, blood, etc.**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Sorrow's Hold**

"_Absolute silence leads to sadness. It is the image of death."_

—Jean-Jacques Rousseau

* * *

"How long has he been standing there like that…?"

"Almost an hour. He hasn't moved at all—not so much as a budge," Francis sighed, his concerned gaze reflecting the sunlight washing into the room from the single open window in the den. He leaned forward, his elbows coming to a rest at his knees, hands meshed in his angel fine hair. The mug on the coffee table had yet to be touched.

Antonio Carriedo stood at said window, basking in the sun's radiance—condemning it, almost, for the bright influence it held on the world—watching the few clouds spotting the sky with unseeing emerald eyes. The Frenchman was right. He hadn't moved. At all. He was perfectly still. A mourning statue. The easy, shallow rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink gave one any indication of life.

"Has he eaten at all?" Gilbert continued to question, murmuring, thinking their Spanish friend couldn't hear their conversation.

"Not since early yesterday morning and even then it wasn't much. Just a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice. It took all I had to convince him," Francis replied with another heaving sigh. "He's hardly slept either. This isn't good for him. If he continues at this rate, he'll…"

"Yeah… I know what you mean," Gilbert nodded.

Antonio pointedly ignored their comments and questions, shifting his attention to a flock of birds bursting into flight near Francis's vacation home in a remote area of northern Maine near the city of Pointe Break. It was surrounded by a surfeit of trees, resting on a quaint path few knew of, cradled by the mountainside and the steep cliff below. Just outside was where the ocean resided, stretching off into the horizon, meeting the pale blue sky and the distant mountains in perfect harmony. A majestic sight indeed if one was to watch their footing when traversing this great precipice.

The home itself was not very lavish (by Francis's standards) as one might expect of the blonde Frenchman whose wardrobe brimmed with luxurious clothes made of the finest material that breathed like Egyptian cotton. It was tucked away neatly along the edge of the forest, made from the wood of the majestic oak trees guarding it, harnessing and emanating the warmth of one's true home. The cultured stone driveway led up to the house where it met the stairs to a porch that wrapped itself a quarter of the way around. A wooden archway supported by cultured stone foundations loomed over the porch and the windows were placed ornately in front of the house.

Antonio reached for the handle on the sliding glass door escorting to the cliff, stopping when Francis called out to him and questioned his actions.

"Fresh air," was the terse reply.

"I see… well, Antoine, about your clothes… do you want me to wash them? I'm not sure how much of the blood I can get out, but—"

"Just get rid of them."

"Are you sure…?"

"Yes," and the Spaniard resumed his intentions, stepping outside, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

The sound of the waves roaring against the cliff's base filled the silence that had settled precariously over the trio. Francis and Gilbert watched their lamenting friend advance further to the edge, their hearts easing to a calmer tune when Antonio stopped a few feet shy of the fatal plummet that had witnessed many lives whisked away by the jagged rocks and thunderous currents below. The platinum blonde of Prussian descent made a worried step to join his friend, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder, causing him to look back.

"Leave him be," Francis shook his head, slowly and sadly. "He needs to grieve."

"But one more step and he could…!"

"_Oui," _Francis gave a nod. "I know."

Antonio stood amidst nature's cordial embrace, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. The overgrown grassy sea tickled at his ankles, swaying to the wind's tender song. The Spaniard let his weakening heart be torn asunder and it fluttered away, unseen, the wind carrying the beat of the broken drum with it as he crumbled to his knees and let out the cry of a dying soul.

* * *

Lovino had been watching the crime scene investigators for quite some time now from his seat on the stairs, looking terribly bored. They were finishing the last remnants of the mess he happened to leave behind in his wake of self-defense. One woman was scrubbing at the large dark stain on the carpet with cleanser. He sighed heavily. Sitting here and trying to mask his presence had become a tedious job (especially after Arthur had given him a warning glare to be on his best behavior). He had grown bored and even frustrated with studying the evidence while they cleaned up, searching for any sort of hint as to who murdered him. Arthur Kirkland stole another glance at the aloof Italian ghost resting on the staircase while mulling over the crime that was committed.

He chewed on his thumbnail (a terrible nervous habit he had picked up recently) while deep in thought. It had been a three days since the murder and there were _still_ no leads! And in those three days, he had maybe four hours of sleep total. Maybe. It was driving him up a wall! Sure, he and Antonio weren't on the best of terms (they were acquaintances, if one could call them that) nor were he and Lovino. But that didn't mean he didn't care. That didn't mean he tossed and turned at night, his brain on total overdrive.

_Clear your head, Arthur. Think. You've always been praised for your analytical skills. Think!_

Their suspect list was short—painfully short. Only three people so far. Antonio Carriedo and Feliciano Vargas, Lovino's younger brother. They were the last people to see the Italian alive, Antonio being the most recent since they had a rather heated argument only three hours prior to the murder.

There was also Ludwig Bielschmidt, Feliciano's German boyfriend and Gilbert's younger brother. He had come to Italy with his elder brother and his uncle when they were children after being orphaned by a house fire. Lovino and Ludwig (or rather Lovino) had never liked each other from the moment they met. That gave the German plenty of reason to commit the crime. There was just one issue. According to a distraught Feliciano, and everyone else Arthur questioned, Ludwig was out of the country on a business trip and had been gone for a solid week and wouldn't be returning for another three days or so. That respectively ruled the German out but Arthur wasn't taking any chances. He was still considered a suspect no matter what the chief said.

Antonio was still a plausible suspect despite the lack of evidence to convict him. There _was_ the Vargas family inheritance to look forward to… but that would require the death of both brothers for someone to claim it. And only Lovino was killed. Then there was the argument. Their relationship had been strained for months now and Antonio was absent more and Lovino began going to the bar at least every Friday night either alone or with his brother. That left plenty of leeway for domestic violence. Antonio's friends, Francis and Gilbert, claimed, however, that Antonio would've never laid a finger on Lovino no matter how terrible things might've been between them. Arthur inwardly scoffed but took it into consideration nonetheless.

Then there was Feliciano. The bubbly, craven, lackadaisical younger brother. There wasn't any solid information on him yet as investigators wanted him to be more… "emotionally stable" before they questioned him any further on the matter. It was only fair, they assumed. But Arthur was growing considerably frustrated. The murderer could've been right under their noses and they wouldn't even know it! Who knew how long it would take Feliciano to regain himself! All they knew about the 25-year-old Italian was that he had worked alongside Lovino in their grandfather's restaurant ever since they were 16. They were the ones who had kept that business afloat and in the family after their parents died via plane crash and their grandfather finally retired.

"Blast all!" Arthur cursed under his breath.

"What could you possibly be grousing about now, detective?" the woman who was scrubbing incessantly at the stain on the floor, Elizabeta Héderváry, was at her feet, shooing some strands of her wavy brown hair out of her eyes. She gave a playful smirk while dusting off her gloved hands. "Not enough action for you?"

Arthur chuckled somewhat bitterly, turning his wearied gaze onto eyes that were a darker hue than his own. "That is hardly the case, I assure you, Miss Héderváry."

"Then what seems to be the problem? You're obviously frustrated. You're making everyone else in the room tense with your staring," the Hungarian forensic scientist asked.

Arthur stared intently at the soul still on the staircase with forest green eyes now closed, appearing to be sleeping. Another investigator passed right through him on his way down and Lovino didn't even seem to notice. Elizabeta followed Arthur's gaze and raised an eyebrow upon seeing the empty space.

"What are you looking at?" Elizabeta questioned.

"Huh?" Arthur snapped out of his trance. "Oh, nothing. Just thinking, that's all."

"You don't look so good. Maybe you should go home."

"Elizabeta, I couldn't possibly—"

The young woman smiled gently, "I can handle it. Go home. You look like you haven't gotten a good night's sleep in days. You're going to keel over if you keep this up. What use would you be then to the case?"

"Oh how thoughtful of you, dear," Arthur's voice was soiled in sarcasm with a gentle smile in return.

Elizabeta laughed lightly, practically beginning to shove the Englishman out the door, "You're no longer need, Mr. Kirkland. Go home, drink your tea, spend time with your son, get a good night's rest and we'll see you tomorrow morning with new details if there are any. Sound like a plan?"

"I suppose…"

"Kiku is finishing up with the report so we'll drop it off on your desk for you."

"Thank you."

Lovino perked up upon hearing Arthur's voice fading and the front door close. He rushed to the window and his eyes narrowed, burning at the sight of the Englishman leaving. He stormed out of the house, ignoring the beckoning of the house for him to return, and rapped on the car window with agitation and a fire in his eyes.

"May I help you, Mr. Vargas?" Arthur only lowered the window partially and didn't so much as even look at the exasperated Italian spirit.

"Yeah, um, where the hell do you think you're going?" Lovino questioned.

"What business is it of yours?"

"There is no way I'm staying in that house another fucking day by myself! It's just too damn creepy! I _died _there! I want to try and forget about it, if you don't mind."

"You're dead," Arthur stated, irritable. "Your heart is no longer beating. _That _is your constant reminder."

Despite the truth ringing loudly in those words, Lovino pressed on, emphasizing it with poison in every stitch, "I. . Staying. In. That. because I died there doesn't mean I'm confined to the damn thing. This is _my _purgatory. Not _yours."_

At this, Arthur paused, wanting to inform the lost soul that purgatory was, in fact, for everyone. But he pushed that thought away nonetheless. "And what exactly do you plan to accomplish at my house, hmm? You don't like me in the least. Or am I mistaken and you actually enjoy my company?" Arthur had a light smirk.

"You're fucking crazy if you think I like you," Lovino's eyes flattened, his lips pursed.

"Then why come to my house?"

"Because—" the young apparition averted his eyes, lowering his head to the side so Arthur couldn't attempt to meet his gaze and remained silent.

"You're lonely… aren't you?"

Lovino didn't dare answer.

"And you don't know where Antonio is."

Lovino hated how the Englishman hit the truth head on. He was too perceptive…

"He's at that Frenchie's vacation house, I would assume. Don't you know where that is?"

"That… _guy,"_ Lovino started, surprising Arthur at the censorship in his language, "hit me on the head pretty hard. I don't remember much. Everything's a blur."

The Brit sighed heavily and sympathetically, reading the loneliness and distress in Lovino's eyes like an open book. Despite how Lovino acted towards others—uncouth, defensive, and insecure—he still craved social interaction. He still wanted to be noticed, to be loved. And Antonio had given him that. Lovino was holding onto the sheer radiance life emanated. That would have to keep him going for the time being… until death's grasp was around his neck. And consumed him entirely.

"I honestly don't know if you can leave this place, Mr. Vargas. You died here. People who die horribly or unexpectedly tend to stick around the area where they were killed until they find out who killed them or complete their unfinished business. While it is possible to leave, I highly doubt it. You can, however, try. I won't stop you."

Lovino cursed under his breath, pushing out the house's whispering for him, tugging at his smothered heart, to go back inside where he belonged. He just… wanted to get out. He wanted to find out where Antonio was… and apologize. For every stinging word he uttered, for every hateful glare he aimed… he wanted to take it all back. He wanted to live! He wanted to be _real!_

Maybe…

Maybe he deserved death, after all.

Maybe that was the entire reason he was stuck here in purgatory.

It was a lesson.

A lesson of life from death.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Vargas. I would take you with me if I could."

"Just… forget it," Lovino trudged back up to the forsaken house but stopped upon reaching the porch. "And call me Lovino. All of the formalities are fucking stupid."

The man with emerald eyes merely chuckled before taking his leave. Lovino watched the taillights of Arthur's vehicle fade out of view from his place on the porch steps where he firmly plopped himself down, suddenly feeling heavy. He was quiet for a long time in his ethereal plane, transparent and still as the world continued without him. Two boys he immediately recognized as Peter and Raivis sped down the street on their bikes, the latter struggling to keep up with his partner.

"Peter! W-Wait up!" Raivis called out.

"Catch up, slowpoke! We haven't got all day! There's so much work to be done!" Peter declared, pumping his fist into the air with electrifying blue eyes.

Raivis stopped pedaling to catch his breath, "You're going too fast!"

"Oh, come on! Don't tell me you're tired already! We've barely just begun!" Peter circled back around. "We've got to go!"

"We've been at it since 10 o'clock this morning! I need a break!" Raivis panted.

Lovino let out a low chuckle, lightly amused with their antics. Those two kept the small town on their toes ("those two" mainly being Peter) as they were always causing trouble. Peter's parents had taken Raivis in off the streets so the boy knew the town like the back of his hand. Peter, being the clever child he was, used Raivis' infinite knowledge to plan out their adventures (which usually was just making a ruckus at Dave's Hardware store or setting loose the animals at the shelter). But the town of Pointe Break wouldn't be the same without them. They kept the sleepy place alive. The townsfolk wouldn't trade them for the world.

Both boys pedaled away again soon after, disappearing down the street. The Italian sighed once more. Might as well head back inside. The moment Lovino was on his feet, an almost unbearable pressure locked itself on his body, enveloping him, nearly crushing him. He paused, searching through his spectral plane, his surroundings becoming quiet and slow. What in the world was going on?!

"Damn it…!" Lovino ground out through clenched teeth, fighting the paralysis in his limbs.

"I'm getting pretty good at this, if I do say so myself," came a disembodied voice, echoing with mirth.

"What the hell…? Who are you?!" Lovino demanded, barely able to choke his words out.

Suddenly, oh so suddenly, Lovino felt a sharp pain digging into his chest, daring to rip out his stolen heart. he let out a strangled gasp and simply wanted nothing more than to keel over and writhe. The agony was sharp and precise, tearing his chest apart from the inside out. He choked on the useless oxygen filling his lungs—but that only unfurled the fire's inner fury as it rippled throughout his body.

"What's the matter, kid? You hurt?" the same bothersome voice came into play.

A young man appeared without warning, his features just as grey to Lovino as everything else was. There was a mischievous spark in such gloomy and dulled (yet wise) eyes and his shaggy dark hair framed his adolescent face. Just the tiniest hint baby fat remained, indicating that this guy was probably still in his late teens or at the most his early twenties. He was clad in a simple outfit: an oversized white t-shirt and basketball shorts. Barefoot. Obviously malnourished. His skin clung to his feeble bones like a vice. And… he smiled like he actually found something worth laughing about!

"W-What are you d-doing to me…!" Lovino growled lowly.

"Don't worry, it'll stop in a few seconds," came the apathetic reply, causing Lovino's eyes to narrow to mere slits.

And, just as swiftly as it came, the pain had dissipated. Vanished to nothingness. The paralysis, however, still tingled strongly in his limbs. Lovino, despite the situation he was currently in, couldn't help but stare (glare) at this new spirit with curiosity and contempt.

The newcomer read the look in Lovino's raging eyes, "No need to get all pissy, I was just testing something out." He waved his hand dismissively at Lovino and the Italian felt the force being lifted off of him.

With eyes like green ice, Lovino stormed up to the young man, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, "Who the hell do you think you are!?"

"You know, it's common courtesy to give your own name before asking someone else's," said the unnamed apparition.

"Do I look like the fucking epitome of courtesy to you?" Lovino huffed.

"No, I suppose not. The name's Gabriel Mendoza," said the chipper lost soul as though Lovino's wrath hadn't so much as faze him as he chuckled. "But you can call me Gabe if you want."

"Well then, _Gabe," _Lovino spat, tightening his grip, "what the fuck are you doing here in _my _house?"

"Whoa, whoa, no need for all of that," Gabriel held his hands up in a placating gesture, keeping his debonair smile. "I was just simply answering your question as to who I was—no more, no less."

Lovino didn't appreciate this kid's sarcasm in the slightest and shoved him out of his grasp (to which Gabriel easily rebounded), "You knew what the hell I meant! I'll repeat my question: what are you doing here in _my _house? Are you just some wandering ghost looking for trouble?"

"You're not the only one who died here, ya know," Gabriel grinned and spoke in nimble tones as if they were simply talking about the weather. He daintily hovered in the air, leaning back and propping his feet up as one would while lying on a hammock. He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, smiling warmly.

"Wait, you died here?"

"I just said that, didn't I?" Gabriel glanced at Lovino with one eye before closing it again.

"How?" was all Lovino asked.

Gabriel seemed to debate on whether to answer the other's question. He shrugged. Might as well. They were going to be stuck together for a long time.

"Terminal illness."

Lovino nodded, sufficed with that answer.

"Now it's your turn, Mr. Grouchy Pants. You got a name?" Gabriel was back on his feet.

The Italian rolled his eyes at his new label, "Lovino Vargas."

"I know."

Lovino shot the other a bewildered look, "If you knew then why the hell did you ask?"

Gabriel shrugged, "Just wanted to see if you remembered."

"Of course I would remember who I was! That's a stupid thing to assume I'd forget my own damn name!"

"You got knocked around pretty good there," Gabriel eyed Lovino's ruined shirt. "Excuse me for being concerned about the well-being of a fellow spirit."

There was a pulse of awkward silence before Lovino broke it with a rather obvious statement.

"You're young."

"Speak for yourself," Gabriel shot back.

"How old are you?"

"Hmm… I am…" the younger stroked his chin in thought, beginning to count on his fingers. "One, two, three, four… ten… 29 years old as of last month. I died when I was 19. In the back bedroom down the hall that you never liked to go into."

Lovino remembered that room very well. It was still occupied by Gabriel's belongings and hadn't been touched in years. The negativity and sheer animosity Gabriel had felt at the time of his death radiated from the room and it consumed only that specific area. While home alone, or even when he was accompanied by someone else (no matter whom), Lovino never dared to enter and Antonio always questioned him about his actions even though the Spaniard had not once set foot inside. Was Lovino scared? Hell yeah he was, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it either. The Italian knew there was something in that house that did not want them there and it turned out to be some_one. _Another lost soul just begging to be found.

"So, it was you? Huh. Who would've thought we had a ghost. You didn't like us living here, did you?" Lovino raised a calculating eyebrow.

"What gave you that idea?" Gabriel spoke with scorn. "My dad and I built this house so I never liked anyone living here—alive or dead. Well, before you two came along, that is. I would always end up scaring new people away so I was alone for about six or seven years. That's when you guys moved in."

"Why didn't you scare us off like you did the others?" Lovino was honestly curious.

Gabriel shrugged, humming in thought, as he paced the porch in odd, but light steps, "I don't know. I guess you guys were interesting to me. I never had a same sex couple move in before so I was rather… fascinated by how you two interacted with each other. You entertained me, to say the least."

"If you were here the entire time, then that means…" Lovino's sallow face would've burned a bright red if his heart were still beating. "You saw _everything!"_

Gabriel smirked knowingly, "Yup. I saw _everything. _From the fights all the way to the bedroom."

"Don't you know the meaning of 'privacy,' you fucking pervert?!" Lovino shouted, the ghostly realm carrying his voice across the eternal distance.

"Hey, it was my house before it was yours—I've got a right to be here. And it was kind of hard to ignore what was going on. You're pretty loud."

"You bastard!" Lovino snarled.

Gabriel laughed and it was such a rich, joyful sound that Lovino had stopped fuming just to listen to the strong vitality it had brought from the world of the living. Such a resonant sound almost jolted his heart into beating again… The light seemed to dance in Gabriel's bright eyes and the darkness lying within held onto it greedily with no intention of letting it go again.

"I don't know why you're still here, kid, so just go on and leave!" Lovino firmly crossed his arms and turned his back to the other.

Gabriel's expression changed in an instant at hearing those words—just as easy as changing the channel on a television—and his eyes became a murky puddle of veiled sadness and regret. Lovino faced the other again, unsure of his words.

"If only I could…it doesn't work."

"What doesn't? Leaving? Why not just waltz down the street, and you know, _leave?"_ Lovino raised a skeptic eyebrow.

"Don't you think I've tried?" Gabriel growled. "I've tried everything. The house has this… hold on you. The moment you walk out the door, it calls you back. It whispers to you."

Lovino was quiet at this statement, knowing he had heard the house's own morbid call.

"You felt it, too, didn't you? When you were in the driveway talking to that detective. I'm stuck here, just like you; until I fix all the wrongs that I've been dealt."

"So you're just hanging around then? I don't see how that's going to work out," Lovino leaned against the porch railing.

"Don't you want that?" Gabriel sat on the wooden steps, watching the clouds drift on by, and continued once Lovino kept silent. "Don't you want to be free of this world?"

The Italian pondered the question. He was still very young at the time of his murder—freshly 27 as of last week and only able to enjoy it for that short span of time—so according to others, he shouldn't know much about the world and how it ticked. Oh, but he knew. He knew of humanity's atrocities unlike his younger brother who was a mere four years his junior. His brother chose to believe the perpetual lie that everyone in the world was good and wished no person ill will. Lovino had tried to convince him, yes, of the murderers and rapists freely roaming the streets while the innocent cried themselves to sleep in the dead of night. Feliciano, however, would not be swayed. He was so naïve. So trusting.

"I _do_ want to get out of here," Lovino nodded. "But not without saying goodbye to Antonio and Feliciano first… and finding out who the hell did this to me."

"That's it," Gabriel said. "That's what's keeping you here. Not only do you need to apologize to your loved ones, you need to figure out who killed you."

"But you know who did it, don't you? You were here. You saw it all happen."

Gabriel's eyes shifted downcast. "Yes… I saw it all. I couldn't forget even if I tried."

Lovino wished he could say the same. Everything was such a jumbled mess in his head. It was almost impossible to try and sort everything out.

Lovino took Gabriel's shoulders, shaking the latter, "You know! You know who killed me, don't you?!"

Gabriel started, "Lovino—"

"Answer me, goddammit!"

"Get your hands off of me!" Gabriel shoved Lovino away with a force that didn't suit his decadent appearance. He glaring at the Italian, and he became the very embodiment of the animosity that had brewed in the house for ten long years. "I don't have to tell you a goddamn thing if I don't want to. _You _need to figure it out for yourself. That's the whole reason you're stuck in purgatory. And I wouldn't be in such a hurry to find out. You still have hell to look forward to."

With that, the spirit dissipated and Lovino could no longer feel his wicked presence.

* * *

"Daddy, you're home!" a small boy of only five with glistening ocean eyes, sandy blonde hair, and a golden smile to rival the sun ran up to his father and threw himself in the open embrace waiting for him.

Arthur chuckled, lifting the child into his arms and hugged him tight, "Hello, Alfred. How's my number one son doing?"

"Daddy, I'm your only son!" Alfred fixated his askew glasses on his round face.

"Yes, I know," Arthur set the boy to his feet again and the child ran off to play with the toy soldiers the Englishman had spent months upon months carving and given each of them their own identifiable expression. "How was he?"

The nanny, Miss Rebecca Chambers, smiled warmly, "He was fantastic, as always. He's such a well-behaved little boy. An angel, almost."

"Around you, perhaps," Arthur chuckled, knowing the boy's true mischievous nature. "I appreciate you looking after him, Rebecca. You've been an amazing help."

Rebecca's smile seemed to only brighten as she placed her delicate hand on her ever growing stomach, "It's no trouble at all. I enjoy the little tyke."

Miss Chambers, charming, polite young lady in her early twenties (21 to be exact), was pregnant with her first child. Though said child was unexpected, and conceived in a rather violent manner, she bore no hatred towards it—or the man who helped conceive the baby. She adored the thought of being a mother as she had been taking care of Alfred since infancy after Arthur's wife passed away during childbirth. She had pulled through for him in his time of need. Now it was Arthur's turn.

"Do come with me, Miss Chambers? I need to speak with you privately," Arthur led the young woman to the kitchen, immediately grabbing a washcloth and soaking it with hot water.

"What's this all about, Mr. Kirkland?" Rebecca wondered innocuously, her hazel eyes watching the Englishman's every move.

"That's an awful bruise you've got there," Arthur brushed back the strands of hair effectively veiling the dark, blood-clotted wound.

Rebecca averted her gaze, wincing when Arthur gently pressed the washrag above her eye.

"You're quite the klutz, aren't you, dear?" Arthur dabbed at the blood beginning to seep. "Did you slip and fall in the tub again?"

Arthur watched the mother-to-be with calculating eyes as she answered, "Yeah… I slipped. And fell. Again."

"Honestly, you should be more careful. You could seriously hurt yourself. And the baby.

There were very few times when the detective showed his warm and caring side—his son and nanny were the among the fortunate few to bear witness to it.

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Kirkland. I'll be more careful from now on," Rebecca smiled knowingly. "I promise."

"Good. Drive safely on your way home."

"I will," she waved. "See you tomorrow."

Arthur watched her go with weary emerald eyes that not even the sunlight washing strongly into the room could brighten. Being a well-brought up young man, Arthur would've walked her to the door to see her off. But he knew as soon as she set foot outside, she would break down into tears, dreading the thought of returning home. The Englishman sighed heavily. He had to get Rebecca out the there, someway, somehow. But without a testimony…

"Alfred?" Arthur called out once he realized the house was far too quiet. He re-entered the living room only to find it empty. No Alfred. Just the scattered soldiers he was previously playing with. "Alfred, where are you?"

"Gotcha!"

Arthur, unsuspecting the boy to throw his full body weight into him (not to mention the kid was strong for his age), was suddenly on the floor, face hitting the hardwood none too kindly, with a particular five-year-old standing triumphantly on his back and a grin stretching from ear to ear adorned his features.

"Oh yeah! I won! I'm awesome!" declared Alfred and he placed his foot on Arthur's head. "You have no choice but to surrender! If not, you will suffer the consequences!"

"Get off of me, Alfred…" the father spoke in a warning tone.

"No! You must agree to surrender!" Alfred continued with a playful glint in his large eyes. "Or suffer the consequences!"

Arthur was very still for a moment, not even taking the time to answer his son. Alfred's grin slowly diminished and he became concerned. Did he hurt his daddy? He sure hoped not. So, in an effort to wake the Englishman up, Alfred took the plastic cup of juice from lunch and poured it over Arthur's head.

There was the faintest twitch from the blonde father, "I'm going to give you a ten second head start."

Sensing the teasing nature in the elder's voice, Alfred immediately dropped the cup and ran up the stairs as fast as his little legs would carry him while Arthur began counting.

"One. Two. Three… ten!" Arthur shot to his feet and broke out in a short sprint as the small boy hadn't gotten very far, and scooped him up and began spinning around, his laughter merging with the child's.

"No fair!" Alfred managed to say. "Y-You cheated!"

"Be that as it may, I still gave you a head start!" Arthur grinned, something he hadn't done in what seemed like ages.

"You still cheated!" Alfred was now a fit of giggles as his father held him in his arms.

The Englishman chuckled and released the boy, "Run along and play now. I'll get dinner started shortly."

"But Daddy—"

"Go on, Alfred. You can go see if Matthew from next door wants to play," Arthur's emerald eyes were firm.

Alfred puffed out his cheeks, "Matthew's boring, though."

"I thought he was like a brother to you."

"Yeah, but, I…" Alfred sighed and skulked out the door. "Never mind." His father would never understand so why even bother trying?

Arthur watched the boy quietly go and began picking up Alfred's neglected toys until the shrill ringtone of his work cellphone caught his attention.

"Detective Kirkland speaking."

"_Arthur, we've got trouble."_

"Elizabeta? What is it? What's wrong?" the Englishman dropped the dump truck he was currently holding.

* * *

"There's been another murder…" she trailed off, her eyes dim, as she stared at the mutilated body lying beneath words written largely on the wall in dried blood and flesh:

SLOTH.


	4. Chapter 3: sEVeN

**Holy crap, how long has it been since I last updated? I don't even wanna know... All I can say is that I am terribly, terribly sorry for the wait. School was hectic those last few months and this summer hasn't been any better. Anywho, I won't bore you with my life story. I just hope none of you have given up on this story...**

**Happy reading~**

**P.S. I did some major editing to the previous chapters so the story may flow better.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**sEVeN**

"_The Bible and several other self-help or enlightenment books cite the Seven Deadly Sins. They are: pride, greed, lust, envy, wrath, sloth, and gluttony. That pretty much covers everything that we do, that is sinful... or fun for that matter."_

—Dave Mustaine

* * *

Lithe, gloved hands undid the leather straps binding the rotting, sore-ridden corpse to the bed. Elizabeta wrinkled her nose at the piercing stench as she worked carefully and executed precision to the letter. She strained her eyes to see in the murky light of the room. Other officers brandishing guns were in the room with her, preventing unauthorized entry. As she worked, the devastation in Kiku's eyes at the sight of his friend's deteriorated state would forever be etched in her mind. Never had she seen the Japanese man in such distraught. She'd never seen much emotion on his face in the first place. He always spoke with his eyes and let the occasional smile slip through.

"Heracles Karpusi," another forensic scientist by the name of Jason commented as he sifted through the victim's wallet. "Age: 32. He's from Greece."

"Yes…" Elizabeta nodded having successfully freed the lifeless, unrecognizable cadaver that was Heracles Karpusi. "He was Detective Honda's very good friend."

"So that's why he ran out like that?" Jason asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yes."

"Poor guy…"

The novice forensic scientist kept rambling, mostly to himself, mulling over the crime scene—voicing his thoughts to put together the broken puzzle left for them. Elizabeta tested out each piece as she searched the room further. In a battered cardboard box there were urine and stool samples stored in small jars, along with bloodied fingernails and pictures of Heracles's staged corrosion, the first one dated exactly one year ago today where he was in perfect health (which obviously showed this murder had taken a great deal of planning). There was just one question left to answer: where were the man's hands and feet? The appendages had been hacked off brutally with an unknown, missing weapon and Mr. Karpusi had been left to bleed out which was most likely the cause of his death besides malnutrition and the infected, pus-filled sores.

"Jason," Elizabeta started, catching the man's attention, "find his hands and feet. They've got to be around here somewhere."

Jason gulped, "His h-hands and-and his f-feet?"

"Did I stutter?"

"W-Why don't you look for them?" Jason shot back albeit feebly.

Elizabeta raised an eyebrow, "Fine. Then you can examine Mr. Karpusi here while I look."

"Never mind. I'll do it," the novice lowered his head in defeat and went about searching the apartment that was littered with air fresheners and other garbage. This was no time to get queasy. He made snide comments under his breath, thinking that Elizabeta's acute hearing didn't pick them up. Instead, she simply chose to ignore it. She didn't have a frying pan to knock him around with anyway.

"Hmm… let's see," Elizabeta hummed in thought. "Lesions… infected sores… chewed off tongue…missing hands and feet… man, this guy was tortured."

"Let me through at once! I am a detective!" a familiar voice rang throughout the thin, mutilated walls of the apartment complex.

"He can come in, guys, he's authorized!" Elizabeta called back to the officers.

Angry footsteps met her ears as Arthur Kirkland stormed inside the room, cheeks red with fury, which earned a chuckle from Elizabeta.

"Easy, Kirkland," she said, "or you're sure to break a blood vessel."

"Those bumbling idiots think just because they wear a badge and carry guns that they run things around here," Arthur grumbled before exclaiming his disgust for the pungent room. _"Ugh! _How long has this guy been dead?"

"32 hours, give or take," answered Elizabeta.

"Besides the obvious malnutrition, how do you suppose he died?"

"Blood loss is my guess. His hands—actually, most of his arms—were cut off along with his feet."

Arthur moved closer to the corpse, shaking his head a bit, "That's unfortunate."

"Yeah, well, he also chewed off his own tongue and there's pressure sores all over his body."

"…great," came Arthur's hesitated comment. "So we've got ourselves one hell of a mess here. Anyone ever bother to check on him?"

"According to the tenant, there was not a single complaint filed against him and he paid the rent on time. There was no incentive to."

"Hm," was all Arthur responded with as his eyes scrutinized the writing on the wall.

"I can see that big brain of yours cooking in there. What're you thinking about?" Elizabeta couldn't help but question as she saw something spark in Arthur's eyes.

"What could anyone possible want with Mr. Karpusi? It doesn't make any sense. As far as I'm concerned he didn't have any enemies and his only friend was Kiku. They haven't seen each other in quite some time, I heard," Arthur then had another thought. "How is he holding up, by the way? I didn't see him on my way up here."

"Not well."

"I see… well," Arthur straightened himself, "the murderer is obviously preaching or something along those lines."

"Preaching?"

The Englishman nodded, "Yes. Preaching. The seven deadly sins. Ever heard of them?"

"To be honest, no—"

Elizabeta was interrupted by a loud yell (shriek) from Jason who dropped an obviously full box and backed away from it, losing his footing on the scattered newspapers and air fresheners.

"What the hell, Jason!" the forensic scientist scolded her apprentice not for losing his cool but for possibly destroying the crime scene.

Jason simply pointed with a shaky hand to the box lying on the floor, its contents splayed out for all to see. Arthur trudged over to said box, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Hands and feet. Well done, Jason."

"Y-Yeah," the pale, shuddering man on the floor gulped. "N-No problem!"

"Let's get this place cleaned up. We need to figure out who did this."

"But, sir, what about Mr. Vargas's case? Are we just going to leave it cold? I don't think Antonio and Feliciano will appreciate that…" Elizabeta protested and sighed lightly in exasperation upon seeing the consideration in the Englishman's eyes.

"…notify Mr. Karpusi's family," Arthur finally answered before heading for the door. "We can expect six more of these."

"Miss Héderváry?" Jason broke the silence with a mere whisper.

"I'm fine," she stated rather callously. "Let's just get out of here."

* * *

Lovino didn't know how long he'd been sleeping. Minutes? Hours? Days? Could he even call it that? Did he even need sleep? He supposed not, being dead and all. He just seemed to float on by—stuck in this sad, grey place while the world continued on without him. It was so odd. In turn, he just sat there in the middle of the staircase, closed his eyes…

And dreamed.

Golden eyes stared ahead at the television set, unseeing, as the commercial for some hair care product ended and the program returned to the screen. It was called _The First 48 _or something along those lines and it was immediately shut off as the investigators revealed the identity of the murderer. Electric blue eyes deepened upon seeing such bright and chipper orbs darkened to almost total blackness. Ludwig Bielschmidt watched Feliciano for a moment before fetching the other a blanket and a cold glass of water. And in this span of time, Feliciano hadn't moved a single inch.

It was cruel to watch, this vicious cycle: Feliciano would wake up from the two hours of sleep he may get (if he didn't spend the entire night screaming), eat nothing, and stare out the window for hours on end or, on a good day, something on TV caught his attention, until it was time to go to bed. And that usually wasn't until one or two in the morning.

And it would start all over again.

Day in and day out.

24/7.

Feliciano was lucky he hadn't keeled over yet.

Ludwig took his seat next to the broken Italian, placing his hand on the other's blanketed shoulder and Feliciano jumped at the sudden contact, cringing away.

"Sorry," Ludwig removed his hand.

Feliciano shrugged lightly, "It's fine." He then returned his gaze to the window that looked out into the backyard where and Lovino played as children.

"Are you hungry?" Ludwig dared to ask.

"No. I'll eat later."

'_You always say that,' _Ludwig thought. "Maybe we can go for a walk or something."

"I'm tired."

"Feliciano, you've been cooped up in this house all week. This isn't healthy."

The broken man shrugged again.

Ludwig sighed heavily. Feliciano was being more stubborn than usual. The German was about to continue when a knock at the door derailed his train of thought and went to answer it with another exasperated sigh.

"May I help you?" he questioned.

"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Feliciano Vargas. Is he in?" said the guest.

"Why do you need to know?" electric blue eyes narrowed.

"I'm investigating his brother's murder and I need to ask him a few questions."

"Well, he's not feeling up to par right now. Maybe later," Ludwig said, beginning to shut the door and growled inaudibly when the man placed his palm firmly against it.

"Sir, please. It's imperative that I speak with him. He knows who I am. My name is Trent Summers."

Ludwig hesitated, "…wait here," and disappeared back into the house, leaving the redheaded man to his own devices at the door, missing the dark glint in those glacial eyes. This would be fairly interesting.

"Feliciano," Ludwig entered the sun room, surprised to find his lover now standing at the same window he stared out. "There's someone looking for you—an investigator handling your brother's case."

"Who…?" came the lethargic reply.

"Some guy named Trent Summers. He says you know him."

Feliciano didn't answer and Ludwig let a beat of tense silence pass before asking, "Do I let him in? Are you feeling up to it? And be honest."

"What was his name again?" the Italian turned his weakening gaze to the blonde.

"Summers. Trent Summers."

That name rang an agonizingly familiar bell to which Feliciano tightened his grip on the wool blanket enveloping his shoulders and bit his lip anxiously. Ludwig waited patiently for the Italian's answer, knowing that Feliciano was just now starting to show improvement, no matter how subtle it was.

"…let him in," was the long-awaited feeble and choked response.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

It was moments later that Trent Summers had joined the duo in the sun room, sitting on the couch opposite them while pulling out his pad and pen from his pocket and scooting his glass of water away from the edge. Ludwig watched his every move, studying, and for a second, the German's warm, magnetic blue eyes met with the glacial, piercing blue orbs of the officer. Such gazes clashed, one seeking to overpower the other. The glacier finally crumbled and set its course for the broken amber eyes of a certain Italian.

"First off, before we begin, I would like to say that I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Mr. Vargas. I can only imagine what you're going through, losing a brother. Rest assured, I am working especially hard to try and solve this case to the best of my ability," Summers said and Feliciano countered with silence.

Ludwig glared. He didn't like the vibe he was receiving from this guy.

"I appreciate you cooperating with me this morning, Mr. Vargas. Now, Mr. Bielschmidt, if you would please step out of the room while the interview is in progress," the investigator smiled a little too disarmingly.

Ludwig's eyes hardened to ice and showed absolutely no intention of moving anytime soon. That is, until, Feliciano looked at his lover with tired and pleading eyes.

"Go on," the Italian whispered. "I'll be fine."

"Feliciano—"

"Go."

The German pat Feliciano's hand affectionately, to which a smile that didn't reach crestfallen amber eyes was given, before Ludwig left the room hesitantly. The man in question fixated his gaze on the officer, giving the latter permission to continue.

Summers cleared his throat, "Mr. Vargas, you were one of the last two people to see your brother alive. Can you tell me what you were doing around 10 o'clock that evening?"

"I was here at home…?" Feliciano shuddered under the thin blanket, his answer trailing off into a question and this did not go unnoticed. "Y-Yes… I was… at home… asleep."

"Did you leave at all?"

"Just to the grocery store."

"And what time was that?"

"6:30."

"So just an hour prior to the time Antonio left for the 'bar'," Summers jotted something down. "And what time did you return?"

"A little after 7:15."

"Did you have any contact at all with your brother or Mr. Carriedo during this time?" the officer questioned, analyzing Feliciano's every move.

"Not that I recall," Feliciano said.

"Not that you recall?" Summers raised a chiseled eyebrow. "Mr. Vargas, it's imperative that you try and remember every detail."

"I'm trying," the Italian sighed. "I'm trying."

The officer waited (somewhat) patiently, crossing his legs as Feliciano added, "Wait, I did talk to—to my _fratello _when I was at the store for a few minutes. He said that he and Antonio got into a huge fight and that he was fed up with everything and was about to pack up and leave.

"Anything else?"

"I tried reasoning with him—telling him that he and Antonio needed each other and it was important that they work things out but he was done with it all. I offered to help him pack but he said no."

"And that's the last you heard from him."

Feliciano nodded feebly, remembering the anger, frustration, and utter despair in his brother's last words:

"_I can't continue living here and pretend to love him. It's not fair to him."_

"Do you know if your brother was having an affair?" the officer wondered.

"What?" Feliciano's eyes widened a fraction. "No! My brother may have been unhappy but he's not the kind of person who would do that."

"So who is Miss Bella Jacobs? The girl from Belgium? From what I understand, she's an old love interest of Lovino's," Summers leaned back in the chair, taking a sip of the glass of water offered minutes earlier. He continued to study Feliciano over the rim of the class, catching the other's fingers drumming nervously, the incessant trembling of his lithe body under the blanket, and the way his eyes stared off into nothing—like a deer in the headlights.

"They're just very good friends. _Fratello _went to her for relationship advice. It was strictly platonic, I promise."

"On those grounds, we have firm reason to believe that Mr. Carriedo murdered your brother," Summers said.

Feliciano's breath hitched in his throat, "W-What? N-No way! Antonio would never hurt him! Let alone _kill _him!"

"Well. It was him. There's no solid evidence yet but we're fairly certain that he's guilty."

"I know he wouldn't do something like that! Antonio would never hurt him!" Feliciano protested.

"You and his friends seem pretty adamant about that," Summers smirked. "But Lovino is dead. And we have two prime suspects—you and Antonio. Your dear boyfriend was lucky enough to get off the list. You see, Feliciano, you seem to have forgotten that there weren't any signs of forced entry which means your brother knew his attacker. You didn't kill your darling sibling, did you?"

The now despaired Italian choked on the tears threatening to fall, "N-No!"

"I know the inheritance your grandfather left behind is quite a hearty sum. Did you kill him for the money, Feliciano? You could've just asked him to split it, you know," the officer kept his sneer.

"It wasn't me! I-I didn't k-kill him!" the clear pearls of a broken soul trailed down Feliciano's flushed cheeks.

Trent Summers' grin broadened. Bingo.

"Are you sure? What were you doing between the time you arrived home and 10:30 when the murder happened? You can't remember, can you!"

"I-I was here!" the young man buried his hand sin his matted hair, feeling his mind begging to crack into pieces. He started sobbing uncontrollably. "I was here!"

"You're _lying! _Lovino is dead because of _you! _You killed your own _brother!" _the officer hissed.

"Get away from me! Leave me alone!"

"Not until you tell me what I want to hear!"

"_GET OUT!"_

The officer suddenly felt his arm being grabbed and was pulled out of the seat none too kindly, coming face to face with a certain German powerhouse.

"I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Summers."

"All right, fine," Trent snatched his arm out of the strong, overbearing grip. "I'll be back another time."

"It'd be in your best interest that you don't."

With that, Ludwig all but shoved the investigator out the door, returning to his distraught lover and pulled the latter into his protective embrace. Feliciano buried his tear-stained face in the crook of the German's neck, sobs wracking his lithe frame.

"I-I didn't—!" Feliciano hiccupped. "I didn't do it!"

"I know," Ludwig stroked the other's unkempt auburn hair. "I know you didn't. You loved your brother very much."

And he was right.

Feliciano loved his brother with all of his heart.

Why…

Why would Antonio do something like this?

* * *

The temperature plummeted the next day, the grey clouds casting an aura of gloom on the tiny town of Pointe Break, dulling the town's bustling activity. Antonio sat in the park that rested in the center of town, watching the few straggling kids begging their parents to play for just five more minutes on the playground. The Spaniard chuckled lightly as a little boy was being led away by his parents, his head hung low in defeat.

Peter and Raivis then ran up to him, dumping their bikes on the sidewalk, curiosity shining in their eyes. Antonio knew these boys well. Of course, Lovino had to always try and keep them from sneaking in and swiping tomatoes from the Vargas family restaurant and wreaking havoc all over town with them.

"Lovino's not coming back, is he?" Raivis questioned, his violet-tinted eyes heavy with sorrow.

Antonio thought about not answering but decided to have pity on the boys, "No. No, he isn't."

"It's 'cause he's dead, right?" Peter added and this statement earned him a sharp jab in the ribs and a reprimanding glare from his friend.

"Yeah… it's because he's dead."

"We're really sorry about what happened," Raivis said. "He was a really nice guy. I hope the police catch whoever did it soon."

"I hope so, too," Antonio stared at them blankly.

"We'll see you later, Mr. Carriedo," Peter grinned, mounting his bike. "Raivis and I have a lot of work to do!"

Raivis sighed before grabbing his bike, "Bye, Mr. Carriedo."

"You two be careful. And try to stay out of mischief," Antonio called to them as they rode away.

"That's like asking a penguin to fly!" Peter laughed and they were soon gone.

Antonio chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. Those two were still just children—the tender age of seven. So innocent. So naïve. So… _vulnerable. _It was funny really, how seamless childhood and adulthood were. One moment, your parents are cradling you and still handing out goodnight kisses. The next, you're expected to be on your own and function as a proper adult, no matter how well you were (or weren't) raised. Peter and Raivis still had their whole, fragile lives ahead of them. God forbid one of them was snuffed out like a candle in a storm. How unfortunate it would be, to die so young. Antonio sighed, cheeks brushed a bright red as the air nipped at his skin, when the trill of his cellphone destroyed the beautiful silence that had settled.

"Hello?"

"_Oh, Antoine, thank goodness you answered."_

"What is it, Francis?" Antonio asked sharply.

Catching Antonio's sour mood, Francis was swift to make his point, _"The police are done investigating your home. You can go back if you want. Or you can stay with me. It's your choice."_

"I'd rather go home. Thanks though."

"_Are you sure? I honestly don't mind you staying with me."_

"I'm sure. So drop it."

Francis sighed, _"All right. Call if you need anything."_

The conversation ended abruptly after that with Antonio deciding to go home. He didn't know what he was doing, going back home. What was he expecting? Lovino to greet him with a playful glare and silent hug? Was he expecting to see forest green eyes flecked with amber or a rare smile that would disappear as quickly as it came? Maybe the house would be in shambles and the house would be in shambles and the dark, horrid stain of a stolen life would be etched in the carpet. Could he handle it? Would his glass heart on paper wings crash and burn?

Time to find out.

"Oh, hello there, Antonio," an aged, sorrowful but still ecstatic voice called out, disrupting Antonio's self-questionnaire.

"Romulus…" Antonio trailed off, stopping in front of the renowned Vargas family restaurant, _Da Romolo_. The elderly man was unlocking the door and flipped the hanging in the window from 'Closed' to 'Open.' "What're you doing here?"

"I can't just sit at home anymore… I need to keep myself busy," Romulus shrugged before entering the restaurant and beckoned for Antonio to follow him to which the Spaniard complied. "Without the boys here, someone has to keep this place up and running."

"Yeah, I just talked to Ludwig the other day. He says Feliciano doesn't have the drive to do much anymore," Antonio commented.

"I don't think any of us do," the old man sighed heavily, turning on the lights. "Nothing bad ever happens in Pointe Break. And these murders are upsetting the town."

"Wait, murder_s?_ There's been more than one?" Antonio raised an eyebrow.

"_Sí._ Heracles Karpusi was found dead in his apartment yesterday."

The only sign of surprise Antonio gave was his raised eyebrows.

"And I have a feeling this is only the beginning so be careful out there, Antonio," Romulus said with somber ocher eyes. "Young people of today have a tendency to think they're indestructible—that nothing can touch them. Oh how wrong you all are."

"Thanks for the advice, Mr. Vargas. I'll keep it in mind."

Despite the tension hanging over them, Romulus couldn't help but smile, "Those two seemed to have kept this place in tip-top shape."

"They wanted nothing more than to make you proud, sir. Especially Lovino."

"Ah, Lovino…" Romulus trailed off with an amused but sad chuckle. "I didn't have a clue what to do with that wild child while he was growing up. But he and Feliciano kept me feeling young. Every day was an adventure with those two. You never knew what they had up their sleeve. Lovino definitely had his mother's fiery spirit."

Antonio did everything he could to stop the once cheerful memories from shuffling through his fragmented mind, to keep them from taking over. He watched Romulus ghost his fingers along the glossy surface of one of the many wooden tables in the restaurant, nostalgia clouding his features.

"Grandparents aren't supposed to outlive their grandchildren, Antonio," the elder placed a strong hand on the Spaniard's shoulder. "See that Feliciano gets at least some bit of happiness. Because when I'm dead and gone, you and Ludwig will be all he has."

"What're you talking about, Romulus; you're still in your prime. A spring chicken," Antonio attempted to add a little levity despite his dry mood.

Romulus laughed humorlessly, "How I wish that was true, Antonio. I'm 65 years old. There's nothing else for me to do in my life except watch my family grow. And I desire nothing more than that."

"I wish you the best Romulus," Antonio shook the elder's hand firmly, sensing that this would probably be the last time he would ever see the eldest member of the Vargas family, and took his leave.

It was before Antonio even realized that he was at his front door, the house looming over him. He placed his hand on the icy doorknob and turned it, entering the house slowly as if the murderer was still inside, biding their time to strike again. The Spaniard paused for a single breath when the living room stared back at him. There were a few minor things missing, of course, such as the broken lamp and the end table it rested on. The picture of him, Lovino, and Feliciano had been restored to its proper place on the wall despite it being ruined (ironically enough on Lovino's side of the photo while the rest endured only a few scratches). Other items of décor had been cleaned out but the house remained relatively the same. However, what drew Antonio's attention overall was the now stainless carpet. They managed to get the blood out. And for some odd reason, that bothered the Spaniard. Like an itch he couldn't scratch. Antonio fell to his knees, his arms heavy with the weight of Lovino's limp, blood-stained body.

"Lovi…" he choked out, the paper wings keeping his heart aloft burned to ashes.

* * *

"Hey. Hey, wake up."

A hand shook his shoulder gently, stirring him from what seemed like an eternal slumber. Dulled forest eyes fluttered open, meeting the bright abysmal eyes of Gabriel. Lovino shooed away the spirit's hand, trying to gather his thoughts and scattered memories.

"You've been asleep for a long time," Gabriel plopped down beside Lovino on the staircase. "All day yesterday and most of today."

"You call that sleeping?" Lovino stretched out his constricted muscles, thinking it was the cause of his compromising bed choice. "I feel like I've been hit by a freight train."

"That's your body's own way of trying to hold on to what shred of humanity you still have left. You'll get hunger pains and feel sleepy and thirsty from time to time. I still get them. If anything, they're more of a nuisance than bittersweet nostalgia. It's just another painful reminder that you're dead," Gabriel explained. "So for future reference, I don't suggest sleeping."

"Thanks. That would've been helpful 24 hours ago," Lovino's eyes flattened. "Anyway, where have you been?"

"Around," came the terse reply. "But that's irrelevant. Your boyfriend's finally home."

"What?" Lovino rushed the rest of the way down the stairs, freezing at the sight of Antonio's trembling form facing away from him, hands meshed in his mop of brunette curls.

Gabriel was at his side in an instant and watched the scene with apathy.

"He's crying… for me…" Lovino's words came out in an incredulous whisper.

"Of course he is," Gabriel almost scoffed. "Did you expect him to just waltz in and watch TV like nothing ever happened? Like you didn't die?"

How dense was this guy?

"But our last fight… he said…"

'_You're a grade-A pain in my ass!'_

Gabriel nodded, "Yes, he said some awful things. But you did, too."

'_I can't stand you! I hate you!'_

Lovino felt his heart sink to his stomach.

That's right.

One was as guilty as the other.

But Lovino was just as responsible if not more.

All the things he had said…

There was no redeeming himself, was there? What if he never righted his wrongs? He was condemned to purgatory with no hope of salvation. Or _worse. _Lovino felt his muted heart sink to his stomach and his stomach drop even lower. What was he going to do?

Gabriel watched Lovino tentatively. He knew what the recent soul was thinking but was just unsure of exactly what to say as he was terrible at comforting people so he simply placed a hand on the Italian's shoulder, "Lovino."

"He can't hear me. And he can't see me. How the hell am I supposed to apologize?"

"Try communicating with him—a simple touch usually gets their attention," Gabriel reasoned. "Just try."

"…a simple touch?" Lovino averted his eyes. "If only it was that easy."

Lovino disappeared back up the stairs again, unaware of the darkness loving over him with hungry eyes, licking its lips greedily.

Time to take another soul.

Arthur entered the now desolate apartment, moving the trash around with the sole of his shoe. What he was looking for he didn't exactly know. But something didn't seem right when he left this place almost a week ago. There was something missing. And he needed this piece of information to figure out what the hell was going on. The Englishman continued his exploration, eyes narrowing in frustration when he came up empty-handed.

He just couldn't let this case go cold! The look in the Karpusi family's eyes when he told them their only son was dead… broke his stitched heart a little. Revealing the news was always the hardest part of any law enforcer's job, no matter how stoic one claimed to be.

Arthur slammed his fist on the wall, rattling almost the entire apartment. He then noticed the tiniest bit of wallpaper loose from the rest. The detective pulled on it, ripping the paper back to reveal a fraction of a word. He tore the rest of it almost frantically and eyed the words written neatly in dry blood:

"_The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied."_

"Proverbs 13:4," Arthur read aloud.

Jackpot.


End file.
